


The Joys of Camping Outdoors

by taehly



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Multiple chapters, PWP, Smut, WAFF, a mixture of fluff and smut now, a series of purely self indulgent things I want to see, there isn’t enough variety in this fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taehly/pseuds/taehly
Summary: There are so many delightful characters in camp that interact with Arthur. So this is a small series of stories that will have different pairings of people with Arthur.Some stories will be one-shots, others might have a sequel.





	1. Dear Boy I (Trelawney/Arthur)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Don’t get me wrong, I love John/Arthur but that is all there seems to be in the fanfic world right now! So I’m writing down some stories of various people that I personally ship with Arthur.
> 
> Unbeta’d and written on my mobile phone, so all mistakes are mine. Some of these stories will be smut, some others may not be, I’ll try to keep it from growing stagnant!
> 
> Thank you for giving me a chance!!

Title: Dear Boy  
Pairing: Trelawney/Arthur  
Rating: Explicit  
Summary: Flirting for Trelawney was second nature, and it had some how gotten him the attentions of Arthur Morgan. This is set after you rescue Trelawney from the bounty hunters, and has a pre-establishes sexual relationship between him and Arthur. 

 

The woods were his favorite place to go. For no real innocent reason, but for what they always brought him. Trelawney couldn’t help but grin around his cigarette at the crunch of boots through leaves that approached him from behind. 

Trelawney’s breath shuddered out of his chest in a rush as calloused, warm hands slid around his slender hips. The reek of booze, the press of a warm chest to his back - the slightly hint of pressure against his arse. Josiah’s eyes fluttered begins his glasses, trying to contain his heart from hammering out of his chest. A deep chuckle, smug sounding, creates a quick flash of irritation. 

“Do not sound so smug with me, dear boy.” He grates out and gets a squeeze to his hips. “It’s simply been awhile.” Trelawney’s voice sounds petulant even to his own ears. 

“Aw now, don’t be like that Josiah.” The pitch, the timber of that voice, Josiah trembles, “Ain’t makin’ no fun. Promise. S’been awhile for me too. ‘Specially since you ain’t ever in camp.” Trelawney’s back relaxes, leans into the solid chest behind it. 

“Arthur..” the older man sighs as bearded lips begin sloppy kisses along jaw and neckline. A hum is all Arthur gives — they’d been doing this dance for years. Arthur perfectly ignoring his baser desires for the male sex and Trelawney ignoring his attraction to the sour faced young man. It was difficult the more Arthur aged — the carefully carved facial hair and trimmed hairstyle, the scent of pomade heavy in Trelawney’s nose. 

Arthur was more vain than anyone ever gave him shit for — fine clothing, perfectly tailored, hidden away in a rucksack in his wagon. Intricately tooled leather boots, French cologne, and baths once a week. Once a week! Even Trelawney wasn’t so fastidious. A hand passing against the front of his pressed trousers leaves Josiah moaning quietly. 

Away in the woods, from the noises of camp, Arthur had come to him after a scalding look across camp — who was the cowboy to deny Trelawney a good hard fuck in nature? Josiah opened his eyes, and bucked into Arthur’s hand. “You brought something with you, yes?” 

Arthur squeezed his thickening cock, tracing its outline. “A’course. Stole some pretty nice slick from a doctor — real fancy. Real slippery.” When Arthur turns him, Trelawney kisses the recalcitrant cowboy until the younger man is melting against him. Their tongues press, tangle, fight for dominance — Arthur always gives in in the end and let’s himself be kissed breathless. 

It was such vivid difference between the stone faced man he knew during the day and this desperate boy he became at night — alcohol aided his courage, the sour bite of beer on Arthur’s tongue accented with the cigarette the man had been smoking. The creak of trees and the whispers of nature around them, it made Trelawney melancholy for a moment. 

Pulling away from Arthur’s mouth, he shoved the younger man up against the tree, just taking him in — gorgeous, kiss full lips shining with spit, eyes hooded and black with lust. Trelawney’s hands move forward, stroke up Arthur’s belly and chest before lowering his hand to fondle Arthur through his tight jeans. His cock is a solid outline in denim, taunting Trelawney with its heat. 

“You always dress so slovenly, but somehow you look like the most attractive man in the camp.” Josiah teased as Arthur writhed below him. Those stormy blue green eyes rolled a little, but his lips quirked in a grin. 

“You don’t see me in town. Ain’t so slovenly there.” That piqued Trelawney’s interest, but it was a conversation they’d have later. Tucked away in Dutch’s river camp, still healing from his wounds and Arthur had been eyeing him up for something since Trelawney’s face stopped being swollen from the punches. 

A big hand curved along Josiah’s cheek, causing him to look up from unbuttoning those damnable tight trousers — Arthur’s face is soft, his gaze soft, lips slightly parted. “Saw you layin’ there, Jos. Thought you was dead for a minute. Got scared.” And Trelawney’s heart fluttered in a way that only meant trouble. 

“You silly boy. Should know it’ll take more than that to kill me.” And then Arthur kisses him, deeply, slowly, in a way that makes Josiah ache for more — but they weren’t allowed more than this. His hand wraps around Arthur’s cock, gives it a firm pull and the man’s moan stuttered into Josiah’s mouth. It’s a beautiful sound, greedy and honest — like the younger man clinging to him so desperately as Trelawney’s hand moves in a practiced fashion. 

What follows next is a few minutes of eager hands pulling open clothes, touching everywhere — Josiah is so much paler than Arthur, and the man’s tanned work-rough hands all over his pale soft stomach leaves the older man shaking. He’s harder than ever, straining against his fine linen trouser fronts. 

“My darling, I’m going to need this to continue forward or I may have to get a change of pants.” Josiah whispers in warning against Arthur’s lips, and the younger man is so eager — pushing Josiah away to lean his chest up against the tree with his back bent in a tantalizing way. 

Trelawney yanks down the man’s suspenders, rucks Arthur’s shirt up under his arm pits and then pulls his pants down. No long underwear in camp, it seems, silly as that thought it. Or...a more delicious thought, them taken off in preparation for this. Trelawney shudders as he grabs the tiny bottle of medical lubricant from Arthur’s pants pocket before his trousers ring around his ankles. 

“Oh, Arthur...” Trelawney sighs at the sight of the man. How long it had taken to get Arthur to lose that shame! How glorious it was for the man to present himself, ready and eager for Josiah’s cock. Arthur’s own length hung heavy and thick between his thighs, dripping at the tip. Arthur doesn’t care for much preparation, so Trelawney doesn’t waste any more time than what is needed to open the younger man up and scissor him loose. 

Arthur’s sweating, breathing heavy and hoarse through his mouth, letting out a deep groan as Trelawney lines up and splits him open. Trelawney doesn’t stop until their hip to ass, and he’s buried entirely into the younger man’s ass. “A...Arthur!” Trelawney whimpers out, bending over his back a little while gripping the younger man’s hips. 

“Now! God damnit, now...please! I ain’t...ain’t gonna last—“ Arthur warns, shaking and breathless, and that is all Josiah needs to begin a rough, unforgiving pace. The sound of their flesh slapping together, Arthur’s grunts and occasional moans, it’s too much even for the few moments Trelawney has been riding into him. Arthur has always been too much. 

“I want to...take you into the city— hmn! — and lay you down on the fanciest...fanciest bed in the hotel, and fuck you until dawn breaks, or you break — whichever happens first!” Trelawney gasps into his lover’s ear, hips still surging. Arthur had stolen a hand below himself, already stroking his heavy cock towards his completion. Eyes closed, mouth open, cheeks a beautiful brilliant red flush — the imagery apparently suited the younger man. 

“Want....that....please!” Arthur grunts our, hips slamming backwards. Trelawney shifts his stance the best his trousers allow and hammers himself home inside of Arthur’s body, listening to every strangled and cut short sound that left the outlaw’s mouth, Arthur’s teeth clamped on one of his forearms. 

There’s no time for talk, or internal exposition about how perfect Arthur felt, no time for winding poetics in Trelawney’s head because his orgasm catches him off guard. Hips stuttering through an erratic pace, leaning up on his toes to grind deeply inside of Arthur as he sinks his teeth into the meat of the other man’s left shoulder to muffle his own cry of release. 

Arthur tenses below him as Trelawney’s seed spills inside, before going rigid as his own orgasm rips through him like buckshot. Arthur’s come paints the tree white in stripes, the man himself sagging against Trelawney behind him, clinging to the bark of the tree as if it would keep him from collapsing. 

Trelawney mourns as he eases out of that fine body, watching as Arthur turns his back to the tree while yanking his trousers up one handed. Trelawney does the same, both buttoned up but still sloppily dressed. There is lingering heat in Arthur’s gaze, and Trelawney takes a step forward as the man leans in. 

Their mouths met silently, breathing each other in between slow wet kisses until Arthur finally pulls away with a soft noise. “Ought’a be gettin’ back now. I’m gonna head down river, get cleaned up.” The walls reasserted themselves and Trelawney knew it was time to get back to their lives of largely ignoring each other, and pretending they didn’t do this. 

Clothing smoothed down, Trelawney offers the other man a brilliant smile — “I wasn’t kidding about the hotel, dear boy. Maybe if luck has its way, we’ll stumble into each other in town, hm?” Its hopeful, and pushing a little too far now that Arthur’s slipped his mask back on. 

The outlaw paused in his steps away, offering Josiah an unreadable look. “Maybe.” Arthur grunts, and continues on his way — albeit with a slight hitch to his step. Josiah sighs, shaking his head, turning back towards camp when the tip of his shoe hits the small bottle of lubricant. 

It bounces away about a foot, with Trelawney bending down to pocket it. It never hurts to be hopeful, the man thinks with a little grin. Feeling much lighter than he had that evening, Trelawney whistles a jaunty tune as he makes the trek back into their still lively camp. 

He was a man of secrets, and this was his more precious kept one.


	2. Where They Go I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dutch and Arthur chapter! Not quite as happy, but we’ll see how this plays or! Explicit rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Dutch and Arthur but I think their relationship is very complicated. I want to try and capture that. I don’t know how many parts this will have, but I’ll make sure it doesn’t cliffhanger!

Where They Go I

pairing: Arthur/Dutch  
Rating: Explicit  
Summary: Arthur is empty, and Dutch has so much inside him. Together they find balance, even if that balance unsettled them both.

Arthur stared at the man before him, the familiar lines of his face twisted in defeat — no one saw Dutch like this, not even Arthur. The loss of Horseshoe Overlook still stung the older man, needled at him. Another notch in the belt of failures Dutch had willingly strung around his hips, seeking no comfort from anyone. 

But sometimes he broke. Sometimes it all piled up too much, too strong, and he sought out someone to pour these things into when his cup became too full. Hosea had been that man before Bessie, and a string of women after Hosea made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate it no more. The women couldn’t handle how deeply they could drown, so they left — one by one, with Molly the most recent. Poor Annabelle and only just kept her head above water before Colm O’Driscoll had filled her full of buckshot. 

But Molly had made it obvious she couldn’t handle Dutch’s ocean, and so that left only one person empty enough to take all of Dutch in : Arthur. Carved apart by Eliza and Isaac’s deaths, flayed open by Mary’s rejection, only Arthur had enough empty space within him to carry all Dutch could pour. 

A familiar hand curled around Arthur’s throat, the sound of Valentine both loud and far away, too close but separated by the door of the hotel room Dutch had paid for. The rasp of callouses against the front of Arthur’s throat, the weight of palm and fingers gripping as he’s pressed harder into the solid door. “Dutch—“ Arthur gasps and is silenced by a sharp look in brown eyes. 

“No talking, son. Not tonight. You know the rules.” Dutch says, and Arthur shudders. He knows the rules. Always knew the rules. Especially now that he was one Dutch came to when he badly needed this — the thought makes him lightheaded. Makes him shiver. These responses are what Dutch wants, the submission in the eye of his boy, and oh! How the thought of that sweet turn of phrase being used for this. 

His boy. Dutch’s boy. Arthur waits for Dutch to reel himself in and knows when it happens, when those dark eyes deepen more and he leans in to kiss — so gentle, so soft. Soft touches that could mean something if they actually meant something to Dutch. Arthur was Dutch’s emptiness, and Arthur wasn’t required to be more than that. But the younger man lays his palms against the door and gentles his mouth. Submits. How could he do anything other than submit?

Dutch’s kiss grows less demanding and more heated, their tongues tangling together with eagerness as Dutch accepts his boy’s surrender. A soft moan breaks from Arthur’s lips when Dutch finally leans away, his other hand sliding along the younger man’s chest to feel the strong muscles beneath his simple Union shirt. 

“Who’s boy are you?” Dutch growls against his ear, scraping blunted nails along Arthur’s flat belly. His teeth are sharp along the curve of cartilage, tongue soothing each bite. Arthur’s hands do not lift from the door even though there is a manic ache in him to touch Dutch. 

“Your boy, Dutch. I’m your boy.” Arthur keens out softly, and this pleases the older man. A motion that spoke for the older man — a jerk of his hand upwards. Shirt off. Arthur complies, suspenders sagging around his hips as his shirt was removed and oh, the heat in Dutch’s eyes as they rove over the younger man’s scars and muscles. 

“You always did keep yourself in such a pleasing shape.” Dutch compliments, hands sliding over hot skin to roughly tweak at Arthur’s nipples, the lightning shock of pleasure making his hips jerk forward and hands curl into fists but did not lift. Never lifted — not without Dutch’s permission. Green eyes stare at Dutch through a heavy fan of lashes, lips slightly parted where Arthur pants through his lust. Dutch always got him this way with almost no effort. 

Dutch doesn’t spend too long admiring his boy, already pushing Arthur to his knees. “You know what to do.” The only order given as Arthur hurried to unfasten Dutch’s pants and long underwear — his erection springs forward, catching Arthur on the chin and causing him to shudder. The younger outlaw can’t dwell because Dutch is already pushing into his mouth — swallow or choke the movement seemed to say. 

Arthur went to work, careful with his teeth, listening to the bitten off sighs and groans that Dutch let out. Felt those strong fingers in his hair, curling around the recently trimmed strands to guide, pull, yank cruelly at his scalp as it went on. Dutch was a tactile man, but there was always a sense of pain behind every touch. Like he wanted to remind Arthur that none of this meant anything beyond the physical. 

The slick slide of hard flesh between Arthur’s lips left him a combination of ashamed and heated, that he was on his knees for any man twisted him up in knots but the way Dutch so confidently used him had something inside Arthur purring like a house-cat. So he sucks, eyes half lidded, as that thick flesh teased along his tongue and soft palate. The way Dutch looked down at him, so pleased — oh it made Arthur shake. 

When Dutch took over it was all Arthur could do to clench his fingers into the legs of his trousers, choking now for real as Dutch’s hips pumped forward and that huge hand rested on the back of his head, guiding him forward. The wet sound of the blowjob had Arthur hard, straining at the front of his pants but he knew better than to touch himself in front of Dutch. 

It wasn’t allowed unless that’s what Dutch wanted. 

Arthur makes a sound of panic when the thick head of Dutch’s cock speared last his throat, edging in deeper until the younger outlaws nose was buried into dark curls. His hands shot up, grasping at the back of Dutch’s thighs as a wild fear spiked through him when he couldn’t breathe — his throat was so full from the cock inside it. He stared up at Dutch with tears starting to form and then the man was pulling back. 

Arthur wheezed. He coughed. He ached. 

Dutch’s grasp is tender when it grips Arthur’s chin to lift his face up. Before Arthur could make a questioning sound, Dutch groans — hot stripes of come paint Arthur’s face, his lips and beard mostly, and Dutch doesn’t stop until he’s empty. Arthur has never felt more low — a painted whore for this man. Shame boils inside him because Dutch loves the look of it on Arthur’s face. 

“Thank you, Arthur. Accommodating as usual.” Dutch says quietly, buttoning himself up to see himself out. The room is quiet save for Arthur’s strained breathing,the freak of his leather gloves as his fists unclench to wipe away the spunk on his skin. 

“Anytime, Dutch.” He whispers to himself, staring at the floorboards until his erection wanes and his shame overflows. 

Anytime.


	3. Romantic Soul I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lighter story, more fluff than smut, about my favorite OTP — Mary Beth and Arthur. These chapters will detail their budding relationship and navigate through the perils of romance and Arthur’s illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos!! I appreciate your patience! he third chapter is here and it is time for a new pairing! Please enjoy! This is my own indulgent pairing and hopefully will inspire more of it!!

Romantic Soul I

Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth  
Rating: Pg-13  
Summary: The start of a budding romance between two precious souls, Mary Beth and Arthur. Based off my instant love for them via their dance at the party and how sweet she is to him. Chapters may increase in rating. 

Dutch’s music played loud from the gramophone, but it was all muffled by the sound of Arthur’s heart hammering in his chest. Her slender hands were overly warm in his — were his sweaty? Christ, he hopes they weren’t. But Mary Beth danced with him with a smile on her face and in her eyes, like she had no cares in the world. Nothing mattered except the shrinking space between them. 

Arthur felt like a boy again, like he had with Mary — tripping over himself at the sight of her. But Mary Beth knew Arthur, knew the kind of man he was and could be. Mary has been under the impression he should change for her — for them, or whatever she’d said. But Mary Beth still smiles at Arthur like he’s hung all the stars in the sky himself for no other reason than to see her smile. 

“You look beautiful tonight.” Arthur mutters shyly, bashful as he looks away from her gaze. She did, in her pretty dress and curls. Were they as soft as they looked, he wondered. Mary Beth’s cheeks grow warm under his praise, and he can smell her perfume they’re so close. She’s so warm and alive in his arms. 

“You’re always lookin’ fine, Arthur Morgan. Specially when you come from town, all scrubbed up with your hair cut, beard trimmed. Always lookin’ fine.” Mary Beth says almost wistfully. “Hosea says you have a real fine tailored suit. I’d love t’see it one of these days.” Arthur’s heart leapt into his chest. 

“Would you want t’go to the theater with me, Mary Beth?” It blurts out before he can really stop it but her reaction to it is more than worth it. She looks absolutely delighted, cheeks blushing a soft pink. “Tomorrow?” Arthur adds on lamely. “We could dress up—“

“Why, Arthur Morgan, you actin’ all sweet on me?” Mary Beth teases him, watching the way his cheeks flush a ruddy red — always easy to tell with his complexion. The way she looked delighted by the prospect, sent his heart skipping. 

“You ever goin’ to quit teasin’ me, Mary Beth?” He complained lightly, affecting a pout with the slightest jut of his jaw. It got him her desired laughter and a playful shake of her head as her cheek rested against his chest, and Christ she could probably feel his heart slamming there. He tries to force himself to calm down. 

“You know I ain’t ever. As for the theater? Yeah, I think I’d like that! Maybe they have a romantic one goin’ on. We could get supper in town first, what do you say?” And he’s nodding, grinning excitedly. 

“It’s a date, then. We can ride in early, spend the day maybe? Walkin’ around, some interestin’ places there in Saint Denis. Interesting folk.” He’d get scrubbed up for her and trimmed like she’d mentioned before, gleaming like a new penny just to see the look on her face. 

The music is wound down by Dutch, and he’s demanding everyone to go to bed now — it’s late and the sun comes early. But Arthur’s too keyed up to sleep, and it seems Mary Beth feels the same the way she leans into him. “You wanna walk? Not too far. I ain’t tired yet.” Arthur offers her, catching her eyes as he does. She looks pleased as punch.

“I’d love to, Mr. Morgan.” Her slender arms wrap around his left one and Arthur lets Charles know they’re just going for a short walk around camp, so they don’t end up getting shot. They avoid Mrs. Grimshaw. Mary Beth keeps pace with him easy as they circle the perimeter, his free hand resting on his pistol. It’s gorgeous out, the moon full and bright with a spread of stars as far as the eye could see. 

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Mary Beth sighs against his bicep, his eyes straying to her when he answers a soft, “Sure is.” As he feasts on her gentled face. His gaze can’t seem to leave her lips, a familiar pit of desire building in his stomach, and he watches those pink lips curve into an indulgent smile. 

“My eyes are up here, Mr. Morgan.” Caught. Arthur’s green gaze lifts up to her playful eyes, a slim hand unwinding from his arm to caress his strong jaw and rest on his neck. “You’re so fine, Arthur. Even a blind woman could see. Like a...a cowboy from one of those romance novels, strong and handsome. A bad boy with a good heart—“ He snorts but she barrels on. “You are, no matter what you say to yourself. You got a good heart — if you didn’t, I wouldn’t like you so much.” 

Arthur’s mollified just for a moment before he shifted to face her more, reaching up to draw the backs of his fingers down the swell of her cheek. Silky fine skin, warm with a blush, and his thumb traces her lower lip. “Maybe so.” He rumbles, and the way her lips part, the way she chases his thumb lightly — oh he can only play a game so long. Catching her chin, Arthur tips Mary Beth’s head up and seals their mouths together in a greedy kiss. 

She doesn’t yank away or struggle, seeming to melt entirely into him as her slender arms wrap around his neck to hold onto him. The kiss grows ever deeper, his own arms encircling her — kissing passionately under the moonlight, it was disgustingly romantic. He doesn’t allow t to go further despite his body straining soon for more, as she was a lady to be courted. 

When it ends, too soon and not enough, he moans against her lips. Leans back when she rushes in for more — “Time again for this later. Let me do it right, proper. Can I court you, Mary Beth?” Arthur says quietly. Her nod is felt more than heard, the young woman not able to trust her voice yet. “Let’s get back to camp, hey? We’ve a date to keep, dont we?” A warm smile shared between them as her touch meant something more this time as she curled around his arm. 

“Am I your girl now, Arthur?” Wistful and sweet, Mary Beth looks up at him. He steels himself against grinning like a fool, Sure he’s doing it anyway.

“Yeah, and I’m your man. Anyone gives you trouble from here on, they deal with me.” Arthur states as he walks her to the door of Shady Belle and then inside, where the girls were sleeping. Another kiss, secretive and chaste but so full of promise left him leaning into her body longer than was proper. 

When she’s settled, Arthur heads upstairs with a heaviness in his loins and a lightness in his heart. He was in love again, and he prays it’ll stay sweet like this for a long time. As he strips down and lays in bed, Mary Beth is on his thoughts as he drifts off.


	4. Where They Go II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch POV. His regret for taking advantage of Arthur is prevalent in this chapter. Each chapter will alternate POV’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Dutch/Arthur chapter! Thank you all for being so patient with me! I didn’t realize how hard it would be to get back into writing for myself after so many years. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos, the comments, he hits! All of this is keeping my fires up!! Please leave a comment below, and thank you!!
> 
> Still unbeta’d, still mobile written! All mistakes are my own.

Where They Go II  
pairing: Arthur/Dutch  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Arthur is empty, and Dutch has so much inside him. Together they find balance, even if that balance unsettled them both. 

They did not speak about their couplings, as two grown men with a complicated history were apt to do — on the outset, Dutch acted as he always did and Arthur responded the same. No need to upset the status quo with complicated feelings. Dutch’s fists curl tightly into the reigns of his lead, feels a familiar roiling heat in his belly as he watches Arthur’s back from the front of the formation, as the younger man spoke to Hosea from yet another fishing trip between the three of them. 

It was wrong. Dutch knew, he hated it, hated his dependency on his boy had perverted what had once been such a wonderfully pure relationship of mentor and mentee. Tainted what precious feelings Arthur had felt for him, because Dutch needed an outlet and Arthur seemed the only one stable enough to handle his need. 

Arthur had grown up from a reedy boy to a strong man, broad shouldered and slender waisted, with biceps that stretched the limits of his shirt sleeves. Dutch’s mouth watered as the light filtered through Arthur’s blonde hair, growing ever lighter in the summer sun, contrasting with his dark blonde beard. He was handsome, heart stoppingly so when a smile curled his lips or he was bashful under a compliment. 

He looked even better with a flush spread over his shoulders and cheeks as Dutch hammered him into a mattress. Looked so good with dark bruises around his hips, bite marks down his back, and hickies that made him wear high collar shirts. Oh how Dutch desires marking that body up, to watch Arthur’s eyes roll back as he came. To watch the way he choked as Dutch shoved deep into his throat—

Shaking his head, Dutch tears his eyes away and sees Arthur looking at him sideways, asking a question without words. ‘Do you need to—?’ And Dutch shuddered. Shook his head minutely. How Arthur offered himself to be to receiver of Dutch’s passionless advances — they had to be emotionally distant. They were too tumultuous, too entwined in each other to be anything other than emotionally disengaged, as much as it might hurt them — Arthur more so. Dutch did not want to hurt his boy. 

The trail seems to stretch forever, and Dutch feels trapped in his own skin, like a great well of energy was waiting for release but he tamped it down, forced it away. He did not need to become so overly dependent — unbecoming of a man of his stature. The fearless leader, the man who made the hard decisions. The hardest of all being the taking of advantage of his boy’s love and generosity. 

The camp finally rears it’s head, and Dutch disappears into his tent — Molly is kicked out with a few sharp words, off in a storm of swears — and Dutch lays himself on his bed with a soft groan. This had to end, this thing with Arthur. It was poison to them, to the sanctity of their relationship. Dutch thinks they can go back. What feels like hours pass, the camp noise lulling him into a slight slumber, trying to fight the headache that was starting to form. 

His tent flap opens, and speak of the devil, it’s Arthur looking concerned. “You okay, Dutch?” Dutch looks up, frowning. Then with a sigh, he shakes his head and motions Arthur in with a resigned look. The younger man steps in and goes to sit next to Dutch as the older man beckons. 

“Son, I’ve been thinkin’...” Dutch starts, licking his lips. “I don’t...this thing...that we’ve been gettin’ up to—“ Arthur stiffens next to him, “I don’t think we ought to continue it. It ain’t right, me takin’ advantage of you like this. Hurtin’ you like I do. Ain’t what I...what I should be doin’.” He looks over to see Arthur staring at his fists, curled tight on his knees. Dutch was expecting relief, but he wasn’t expecting the stormy expression either. His hand covers Arthur’s, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

“It ain’t you, son. It just...if we didn’t have the past—the history—“ Arthur stood sharply, then breathed out sharply and for once Dutch felt out of depth, even just for a second. Then the tension drains out of Arthur’s body, his stubbled jaw working itself loose before he speaks. 

“It ain’t ‘cos you don’t want me?” Arthur asks in a quiet voice, hands fisted tightly again, not looking at him so Dutch has to voice it,

“No, Arthur. No. It ain’t that. “ Dutch hears the breath shuddering out, watches Arthur nod a bit jerkily. Breathes out again — God what has he done to his boy? Dutch’s own perversions—

“Then it’s because you’re a coward.” Arthur’s reply draws him up short. It’s not relief in Arthur’s eyes, it’s anger, and that is rattling Dutch to his core. “I’m good enough for you to use and leave, but once you start feelin’ anything other than disdain for me, y’gonna run!” Disdain?! Dutch stands up quickly in response, as if his whole body protested the word use.

“I don’t disdain you! It ain’t like that Arthur — I just..” Dutch couldn’t explain it without sounding like the coward Arthur accused him of being. “You got it all wrong, son, just listen—“ Arthur steps into Dutch’s space and Christ has he always been this big, his green eyes burning angrily. Dutch feels momentarily cowed by the strength of the young man’s rage. 

“No, you listen for once Dutch. I let you do all those things to me, let’chu put me on my knees and over your bed because I thought we had an understanding. It’s clear we don’t. This weren’t some...some solo operation, van der Linde. I let it go on ‘cos I thought I’d get somethin’ out of it eventually. ‘Cos I love you. But now it’s clear you didn’t never think of me as anything other than a hole to fuck.” Arthur’s voice was silky soft menace, and Dutch’s own words dried up. 

“‘Cos if you did think about me differently, y’wouldn’t be trying t’end this like I’m some sort of misguided girl you tricked into loving you—“ Dutch flinched at the harshness, “And step out on with one of your closest friends. When you figure out what you want, Dutch, you come find me but until then—“ Arthur yanks him forward, and his mouth seared hotly against his own. The first time he’d ever experienced an Arthur Morgan kiss. 

The kiss was deep, but more aggressive than anything Dutch had shared with a woman. Oh, Arthur was such a good kisser— Dutch’s hands clutch at his biceps as he chases the younger man’s tongue in a greedy fashion until Arthur’s pulling his mouth way. “You remember, Dutch van der Linde, what you gonna be missin’ out on. Get your shit together, an’ maybe I’ll spread my legs for you again.” 

Dutch is shoved out of Arthur’s way, the older man stunned as he watched the others back as it disappeared through his tent flaps. Sinking to his bed, Dutch groans low and closes his eyes. He had a lot of thinking to do — this on top of everything else, it would break him. 

“Oh my boy, I am going to ruin us both.”

Dutch just knew it.


	5. Where They Go III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a couple weeks of indecision on Dutch's part, Arthur grows tired of waiting. Time to take things into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for patiently waiting for the next chapter! I finally got my computer running, so I thought hey! Let's surprise them with an update and boy is it a long chapter, haha! More Dutch x Arthur, because that's what my heart desires. 
> 
> I might end up rewriting a bit and put it into it's own story. Let me know if you'd like that!

Where They Go III  
pairing: Arthur/Dutch  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Dutch thinks too much, and Arthur tries not to think at all.

The air around camp seemed oppressive since their last conversation, Dutch keeping tight lipped on why with anyone who comes up to ask him. 

Arthur treated him with barely concealed disdain for the time being, a lack of respect in his eyes when Dutch would send him out for tasks or ask him for assistance with a plan. Hosea was confused, having already spoken seperately with both men to see if there was a way to mend whatever bridge was currently on fire between Dutch and Arthur.

Dutch told him to leave it alone, and Arthur had told him that Dutch had some things to think about. Arthur was being relentless about it, dismissing any soft touches or intense stares from the older man until Dutch had come to a conclusion of what he 'wanted', as Arthur had told him a couple weeks ago. So far, Dutch hasn't said anything but the desire for Arthur was still there, but Arthur had no interest in it.

He was no one's play toy, especially to a man who claimed to respect him.

Currently, Arthur was curled up on his camp bed, pencil shifting in lines on his journal to form a familiar face from the lead. Arthur may play a great avoidance game, but locked away in his thoughts, the younger man could really only think about Dutch when they were in camp. It was hard not to, the man was everywhere. A sigh pushed through the younger man's lips as he looked up to the object of his current drawing. Dutch was talking with Hosea over a game of cards, a book at his elbow -- Hosea must have caught him on his way to the tree he read at.

Arthur grunted then, frustration overwhelming him suddenly, boiling in his stomach like burnt coffee. Why couldn't Dutch just admit there was something between them? Arthur had come to grips with it easily enough: he loved Dutch, and that was that. Nothing to agonize over. It was Dutch, so it made sense to reason he'd have fallen for the older man during their time playing together.

But Dutch? The man was over complicating a very simple process, Arthur thought. But what was Dutch van der Linde but an over-complicated man? Well, fuck this, Arthur thought bitterly. He'd go to town then, find some entertainment there. Green eyes narrow at the prospect of fumbling around with some stranger, lip curling in distaste but maybe it'd galvanize Dutch into action. Maybe it'd get him to make a damn decision.  
Arthur closes his journal and tucks it away into his satchel, unfolding himself off the small bed he called his own and stretched with a grunt, plopping his hat onto his head. His movements must have caught Dutch's attention because the man spoke out as Arthur ambled lazily to his horse, Hosea surreptitiously watching from his hand of cards.

"Where you headin', son?" Dutch asked trying to act as though it didn't bother him. Arthur was more observant then that. Arthur sniffed a bit, then spat off to the side.

"Bored. Gonna head t'town, find some fun. Pick up some supplies for camp." Dutch's knuckles tense as he grips his cards. Arthur watches with amusement, a cold sort of amusement. "Got a problem, boss?" The 'b' pops, and Dutch's dark eyes snap to him in irritation.

"Not at all son, was goin' to ask if I could join you on your little excursion. I need a few things from town as well." Oh, I bet you do, Arthur thinks nastily and it translates into his gaze. Dutch's nostrils flare, that ever present anger start to simmer up a little higher.

"Sounds good, Dutch. Maybe we could finally have that conversation you keep avoidin'." And with that, Arthur turns on his heel back towards his horse in the silence that he got from Dutch. It was a nasty sort of victory when Dutch soon followed him shortly after, Arthur adjusting his hat as he watched Dutch approach. Despite the anger Arthur felt, Dutch still captivated him. The man dressed in a way that caught your eye, and his swarthy features paired with an almost ever present roguish grin would cause you to want to know what he was grinning about. To know whatever secret he seems to know.

The confident stride, black slacks hugging strong thighs, it still made Arthur's mouth water. Annoyed with his desire, he busied himself with pulling on his jacket from his horse's saddle bag. Kippy danced restless beneath him -- a white Arabian much like Dutch's, she was still wild as hell even after Arthur had brought her down from the mountains. She wanted to run, prance about, and that much was made clear when she practically bolted from the camp with Dutch on his heels.

"Kippy! Damnit girl, slow down!" Arthur shouts as he tugs on her reins, and unhappily the mare allows herself to pulled into an easy pace. Still fast, but not blazing like she'd been wanting -- a pat on her neck, and a scratch between her ears pleases her. A laugh meets Arthur's ears when he finally gets her to slow up, causing the man to turn his head to look at Dutch, still chortling in amusement. Arthur has to fight a smile -- Dutch's amusement was infectious. Arthur turns his eyes away as Dutch pulls up beside him, the Count snorting.

"She's still full'a fire, ain't she?" The older man said, his tone soft. "Reminds me of you so much." This makes Arthur clench his reins -- Dutch had no right to get soft and introspective like this, Arthur won't let him. A sharp glare cuts off anything else the older man has to say, dark eyes shifting from the younger man to look at anything else. Arthur wants to say something, to dig the knife in further but he knows his anger is puerile at best. He's trying to get Dutch to come back, after all, not run him away. See what he misses, and decide whether it's worth pursuing. Right now, Dutch wasn't doing anything.

"She's feisty but listens good." Arthur supplies, looking at the older man with a slightly softer expression before a sigh escapes his lips. "I'm gonna spend the night in Rhodes, so I won't be ridin' back with you." Dutch's head turns to him sharply, thick brows furrowing. "Gonna get piss drunk on whiskey." Find a warm body and a soft bed, Arthur doesn't say.  
"You could do that in camp, you know?" Dutch says, trying to affect an air of 'do as you wish'. It wasn't working. The man's brain was spinning so fast that Arthur could almost see the steam leaking from his ears. "We got plenty of whiskey and your bed is free."

Arthur shrugs a shoulder as he sees Rhodes coming into view, "Want a bath an' a soft bed, Dutch. Want good whiskey, not that shit Sean keeps sayin' is good." He gripes. Dutch sighs, rubs the leather of his reins between his fingers then jerks his chin up a little. "I'll join you then, son. Get ourselves a couple drinks before I go do my errands." And while Arthur was curious what sort of errand Dutch could be running, he chose not to ask.

Once in town, Arthur swings off the saddle with a slight protest of his joints to go about hitching Kippy up. Dutch follows after him into the saloon, leaning up against the bar with him as Arthur orders himself a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Money changes hands and soon he's at a table in the back of the room, back to the wall to watch the patrons -- the piano playing, the din of conversation, it causes Arthur to release some of the tension in his shoulders as the whiskey burned down his throat and warmed the pit of his stomach.

They don't talk much, him and Dutch, because the older man knows what Arthur wants to talk about but can't seem to get over his own pride enough to engage in that particular conversation. Arthur watches Dutch and Dutch watches his glass, frowning down at his drink as if it holds the answers -- and who knows, maybe it does. Maybe the old adage of 'liquid courage' would be correct. But unfortunately Arthur knew Dutch too well, and knew that the man would repress this even further down until Arthur had no choice but to move on himself. As much as Arthur didn't want that to happen.

A third glass gone, and then Dutch was standing up -- muttering about his errands, before he was halfway out of the saloon before Arthur could really even say anything. Disappointment curdled that warmth in his belly, causing Arthur to scowl down into his glass.

The night continues without Dutch, as many things in Arthur's life do -- they move on without Dutch. Losing Mary had been hard, losing Eliza and Isaac even harder, and now laughably...losing Dutch himself but that seemed to be going too easy. Arthur falls into his usual pattern of mental self loathing, his mind wrought with thoughts of 'what if I'd just kept my mouth shut' and 'what if Dutch wasn't a self aggrandizing prick?' and so on, until his table jostled with movement. Muzzily, Arthur looks up to the gentleman sitting across from him. He's dressed out of place for Rhodes, so Arthur surmises he must be visiting from Saint Denis.

"This seat taken?" The man asked, and Arthur shook his head, "Help yourself, feller. My company already ditched me." Interest piqued on the stranger's face and Arthur took stock of him: seemed tall, older than Arthur, with a head of dark hair (slicked back but too short) and dark eyes (brown, but the wrong color), and artfully styled stubble (no mustache, unfortunately). The stranger was handsome, for sure, and could possibly do in a pinch if he was...amenable.

"That's a shame, really." The stranger said after a moment silence. in his too posh voice, "A nice fellow like you, drinkin' alone." Arthur nods, looking a little mournful as the drink clouds his brain. "A...handsome, if you don't mind me saying, fellow like you shouldn't be alone." The hint in the strangers tone keys Arthur onto his interest, and causes the outlaw to lick his lips and before he could answer, the stranger makes him an offer. "There's some stairs to my balcony room, if you'd like to come...drink with me." The offer hit like a ton of bricks, and was about as subtle.

Arthur swallows hard, then nods. This was the plan, wasn't it? Get drunk, get fucked, then get his own room to sleep off his misery. "Sure, mister." Is all he can manage as the man looked positively chuffed. "Capital! Just across the street then." They chat a little more, nothing important enough for Arthur to remember -- small talk was the bane of his existence. And then away he went in a rush of fine cologne and the wrong body shape. Arthur clutched his bottle, drank more courage before standing up to leave the saloon, spurs jingling across the wooden floorboards until the cool air bursts against his skin. Had it already gotten dark? Pushing away his thoughts, Arthur headed towards the aforementioned stairs, staggering up them until he got to the room that had been hinted at.

His hand resting on his pistol, Arthur knocks on the door politely. It's opened a crack before swung wide by the man before. Ushering Arthur inside, he wastes no time pushing Arthur against the surface of it to kiss him. It's a good kiss, knocks Arthur out of his element until he can engage his brain enough to get his arms around the man's shoulders, one hand sinking into his hair. They make out a bit more, tongues sliding and hips grinding until the other man was pulling Arthur to the bed, shoving him onto it. "I wasn't sure you'd come." The stranger said as he helped Arthur to start undressing.

Arthur's heart rate kicks up, and he doesn't know why he feels so...wrong, doing this. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that the man wasn't who he wanted. Stripped down to his trousers and union suit, - buttons open to expose the line of his chest to the man's hungry gaze - Arthur startles when unfamiliar hands caress his skin, scratching through his chest hair. Another kiss to distract Arthur, and the man starts rocking his ass down towards Arthur's hips. The outlaw's body responds eagerly, hips jutting up against the man -- a groan escapes Arthur as his neck is attacked then, tipping his chin up for those eager teeth and scraping stubble to mark him.

"I never told you my name," His stranger says in a rush, causing Arthur's eyes to pop open, "It's E-" A rough hand covers the talking mouth, Arthur shaking his head. "No names." He grunts out, "Don't complicate this." A slight pause from his stranger before the man nodded and continued his determined path of marking Arthur's neck with bruises, clever hands undoing the fastenings of his jeans and fishing out Arthur's cock, giving it a squeeze.  
Three things happened within a span of a moment. Arthur groaned from the delicious pressure, his stranger begin to form what could be called a rather filthy grin, and the sound of a gun cocking broke the mood. Silence beyond hammering heartbeats could be heard, three sets of breathing: two panicked, and one measurably angry. Arthur's green eyes lifted up from his strangers face to see a glittering Schofield pistol pressed against the back of the man's head. A revolver attached to a familiar hand which Arthur followed up to the thunderously angry (jealous?) face of one Dutch van der Linde.

"Get out." Dutch growls to the stranger, and the man seemed to be intelligent of all things because he did not argue. He fled the room after scrambling from the bed, grabbing a leather bag at the door and slamming the door, causing Arthur to yank the blanket over his lap. The gun was re-holstered and now Arthur felt the dam of his own anger bursting - "What the actual hell, Dutch!" He snapped. Dutch snapped too, or his hand did at least, cracking against Arthur's mouth in a cheap backhand. A finger pointed at Arthur, accusingly.

"This what you call errands boy, gettin' supplies? Huh!" Dutch snarled as Arthur floundered, "Who the fuck was that you was lettin' put his hands all over you, huh? You whoring or something, Arthur?" Dutch was jealous and pissed, having gone back to collect a likely very drunk Arthur to get him tucked away into bed so they could go back to camp in the morning, only to find out he'd left with some stranger -- it didn't take a genius to know there was only so many places they could go.

Arthur takes offense to Dutch's jealousy, jerking his chin up to respond in a snotty tone, "So what if I am. Money by any means, hey? That's what you said - I can peddle my ass if I want." A small childish part of himself found it hilarious at the way Dutch raged about it, the way his jaw clenched and the way he ground his teeth together to keep from shouting. 

"You don't let other people put hands on you, you hear me--" Dutch began.

Arthur's nostrils flared, "You don't fuckin' own me-" Causing Dutch to smack him again, which jerked Arthur to his feet, punching the older man in the mouth, "Don't put your hands on me again, Dutch, I swear to god I'll-"

Dutch grabbed him by the open front of his union suit, slamming Arthur into the wall, their bodies pressed together, "You'll what, Arthur?" He asked in a silky, menacing tone. "You'll leave?" Dutch's presence, the heat of him and the slight amount of blood on his lip, has a profound affect on Arthur's poor drunk brain, but it's not anger that Arthur responds with.

"You ain't givin' me much choice." Arthur whispered, head lolling against the wall to look away from Dutch as a spike of melancholy hits him, because how could he have ever been so stupid to think Dutch really wanted anything else from him. All the people he'd loved this intensely had only really needed things from him: Mary needed him to change and to be a different person, Eliza had needed his money, and Dutch had needed his body. Who was Arthur but a collection of bad habits marinated in alcohol and self loathing? A sour faced man who pushed everyone away.

Dutch softens his expression, "This has really been...weighin' on you, ain't it?" He asked quietly, hands flattening against Arthur's chest. The stuttering panic in Arthur's chest - an oncoming anxiety attack, he can feel - makes it hard for Arthur to answer verbally so he only nods. Turns that mournful gaze onto the older man, hands moving up to wrap lightly around Dutch's forearms, watching the older man.

"You know, I figured it'd be easy to let you go. Heard you two through the door a minute, thought I oughta just go back to the saloon, get wasted....but I got so angry. So damn angry, Arthur, at the idea of another person - another man! - putting his hands on you. Touchin' you like I did." Dutch confesses, staring at the younger man's shoulder as it was easier than eye contact. "I wanted t'kill him. Hearin' you moan like that, an' it wasn't me makin' you do it...I was going to kill him." Dutch tells him, "The idea I'd already lost you..."

Arthur shook his head, "No...no you ain't lost me, Dutch...but it ain't easy like this. I...I wanna be in your bed, god so bad, but I ain't just gonna throw myself into it because you got jealous cos you thought you'd lost your chance. I given you chances for nearly a month," Arthur says as he grabs Dutch's chin, forces his eyes up. "A month, Dutch. Been waitin' for you to get your head outta your ass the entire time."

Dutch's brows furrow as his hands smooth across Arthur's hips, squeezes them. "I'm sorry, son. I am." Dutch manages, the heat between them unbearable for the both of them - Arthur was still hard from his fumbling with the man, pressed against against Dutch's belly and it took true will for him to not buck forward. He's sure it was hard for Dutch to not wrap a hand around it, to bring Arthur off. "Arthur.." The older man murmured, leaning forward to kiss him - no frenzied passion within the press of their lips.

It was a soft, sad thing. Familiar press of lips and tongue, Arthur's arms around broad shoulders. "Dutch, we can't-" Arthur murmured when they parted, and the older man nodded. "I know, son. I just...missed you. Missed this." Whatever the nebulous 'this' was that Dutch was talking about but Arthur could understand. Arthur missed it too. Dutch steps away, brushing his knuckles fondly - teasingly - against the hard length of Arthur's cock which causes the younger man to jut his hips forward, flushing in an irritable manner.

"Let's get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning, son." Dutch tells him, heading to the door to lock it up. Arthur buttons his union suit up, cock still a hard outline in the gray material before he climbed into the bed he'd nearly gotten fucked in. His body still ached as his arousal begins to fade - Dutch got the fire going larger, before stripping down himself to crawl into bed next to Arthur. The lights turned off, the crackling of the fire combined with the booze and Dutch's presence, it all lent to Arthur feeling himself falling into a sleep state.

A hand stroked his cheek, pushed his hair back, and lips brushed his own again before Dutch's arms pulled him close to hold. "Tomorrow, my boy...tomorrow's goin' to change everything." Dutch whispers in the dark. Arthur finds himself agreeing mentally as he shifted closer. 

Yes...tomorrow would be different. Arthur wasn't going to play this game a second time. Everything would shift, and Arthur was hellbent on making sure it was in his own favor.

His fingers curl tightly into the fabric on Dutch's back as sleep claimed him.  



End file.
